


The Great Plan (in 3 Easy Steps!)

by sunflcwers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Just idiots in love, Love Confessions, M/M, No Angst, Romantic Comedy, it's endearing though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflcwers/pseuds/sunflcwers
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is no stranger to the rewards of a well-thought out plan.Otherwise entitled: Crowley the Disaster Gay Strikes Again! A detailed guide on how to sweep an angel off his feet.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 229
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	The Great Plan (in 3 Easy Steps!)

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to Stef (crepesandoysters) for being my beta for this fic! Also special mention to Az (MrsCaulfield) and Alex (@alex_adele_enby on twitter) for supporting me while writing this hehe ily all.
> 
> Rated T for language.

Anthony J. Crowley is no stranger to the rewards of a well-thought out plan. 

He works in the real estate business, after all. And being the decent realtor he is, he knows how to reel in prospective clients with both deliberate tricks and smooth tactics. All drawn out in an elaborate list of steps and topped off with the power of an expansive imagination. The method to the madness of it all.

He could show a newlywed couple a real shithole and still chirp on about its good bones. _("You can bring so much life into this nice little apartment," he'd coax, "I know you can make this place beautiful.")_ It's always the story that gets them in the end, but being exceedingly charming about it has always helped him get most of his sales too.

Which is why he wonders how the fuck he found himself in this predicament. 

"So," Anathema begins slowly, squinting the moment he steps into the office. Her gaze soon settles on the cardboard cup carrier he's clutching with one hand. The evident elephant in the room. Even the weight of it makes a silent mockery of him. "Pray tell, how did you end up getting yourself _six_ orders of coffee this morning?"

"It's a long story," he grumbles, trudging over to his desk beside hers and placing his things down with a heavy, defeated sigh. He holds on to a sliver of hope that she'll just let it go.

Instead, she offers a tight-lipped smile. "Lucky you! I've got time." 

Well, it was worth a shot. 

As he recounts the events of that morning, she doesn't look surprised at all. (He wonders if that indicates how she really perceives him. And he should be insulted, or feel even a tiny bit annoyed about it, but he knows she is often right— about everything, really.) It makes sense, though. Anathema Device has been his colleague and only friend in this godforsaken company for half a decade now. She's seen her fair share of his bumbling fuck ups through the years. 

To put it succinctly, Crowley has made an utter fool of himself today. Created a whole new brand of stupidity and embedded enough shame to propel him off into space. Somewhere far off, maybe to the likes of Alpha Centauri if he has a say in it.

All he wanted was to order his morning coffee before heading to work. And it should have been easy. Hell, it should have been _easier_ _than usual_ because a new coffee shop, 7th Heaven Café, opened just a day ago across the street of his office building. 

But this supposedly _easy_ task was derailed the moment he walked into that very shop.

It wasn't a particularly busy morning. What he expected was that he'd be in and out of the café in ten minutes tops. It would give him enough leeway to relax and get settled before focusing on his mounds of paperwork. What he didn't expect was that he'd be confronted with the world's worst barista. At the very least, he was shit at using the till.

He watched in horror as this bloke—Newt, as he read on the young man's name tag—fumbled with the machine like he had never even seen one before. He was muttering to himself and pressing too many buttons in a way that was making Crowley nervous.

"Oh, Crud," Newt spoke frantically, keeping his eyes downcast. "I seem to have multiplied your order by six and it won't let me void the order."

Crowley blinked rapidly, trying his very best to remain composed. It was too damn early for this. _"What?"_

"So very sorry, sir. Goodness, I can't lose my job on the first day _again_." 

_Again_ _, he said. That sounds promising._

"Hey - m'not gonna cause an issue or anything," Crowley said placatingly, in an attempt to calm him down. He could sense a number of customers were already eavesdropping on their exchange. "I just want to get my order." 

Just as Newt was about to reply, someone rushed in from the backroom holding a tray of buttery croissants fresh from the oven. This _someone_ was around his age, wearing the same button-down and crew apron as the barista but with two distinguishable items that set him apart: a crisp bow-tie and a pair of oven mittens he had on. Both in tartan print, which he would question on any other person but it somehow made his look even more endearing. And the moment Crowley laid his eyes on him, any frustration he initially harboured immediately dissipated and vanished into thin air.

Now, Crowley has met all sorts of people because of his job. He has, of course, met married couples and many families in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes a rich divorcee that hoped to make a fresh start in a new home. But he's also met the occasional local celebrity or personality he'd seen once or twice on the telly. Many fairly attractive and charismatic people (some of which have even tried to casually flirt with him, but he's never entertained the attention because that wouldn't be very professional, would it?) Yet none of them could hold a candle to the man that just barreled through the door all flushed and full of baked goods in his arms. 

It was a gloomy morning, so the faint glow of yellow ceiling lights looked like bright beams cast overhead when he stepped closer— the golden haze refracting against the man's fluff of blond hair and making it seem like he had an honest-to-god halo. Crowley knew it was silly of him to think of it this way, but he very much resembled an angel.

"Till's acting up, Mr. Fell. Multiplied the orders, and I can’t seem to fix it," Newt admitted guiltily, breaking him away from his reverie. Which was good, because he really shouldn't be staring. Or ogling, to be more accurate.

"Is there a problem?" the man asked nervously, setting the tray down and approaching them with an empathetic frown. "I'm Aziraphale, the manager of 7th Heaven. I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience we've caused. We'll get it all sorted in a jiffy."

Crowley was a goner. He even found the way he spoke—in that kind, and gentle, and earnestly posh voice—incredibly adorable. 

"Mmhrghh yeah - I mean, no. No problem at all. Just gonna buy 'em all, actually." 

The angel blinked hard in disbelief. Crowley would too, if he were in his shoes. "Are - are you sure?" 

"It's really alright. Can't have enough of it, really. I like coffee. Big coffee fan, me," he rambled, before mentally kicking himself over how lame he was being.

"Thank you so much, sir. And I'm sorry again for the trouble. I was... really hoping not to muck things up on our first day, but it can't be helped sometimes," he muttered with a sad laugh. 

"I don't think you can do any wrong, to be honest," he drawled, before quickly adding, "Today, I mean. Blame it on first day jitters, s'all." 

"Hm. Well, I suppose you're right." 

Then the angel's eyes lit up, his lips curving into the brightest smile, and Crowley _knew_ it was curtains for him at this point.

_Oh, bollocks._

—

"You're telling me you panic-bought all this coffee because you thought the manager was cute," Anathema summarises, sitting back in her chair with an incredulous look on her face. 

"No," he deadpans, grabbing one of the cups and taking a quick sip (he'll deal with giving the rest of the orders away to the office guards and secretaries later; he just has a few metaphorical wounds to tend to, first). "He wasn't just _cute._ He was downright gorgeous."

"That's really all you got from what I said."

Crowley could only hum in response.

"You're ridiculous," she says matter-of-factly, but there’s a hint of fondness in her tone anyway.

"So I am," he replies without missing a beat. With firm resolve, he gulps the rest of his hot drink and tosses it in the bin beside his desk. A wicked grin appears on his face as he wheels his chair closer to his friend. "Listen - I have a plan set. To ask that manager out, if he'd be interested." 

Anathema eyes him warily. "You look like a man on a mission and I'm not sure if I want to enable this."

"You don't have to. Just hear me out, alright?"

And before she can protest any more, he already begins explaining the mental list he's come up with to hopefully win the angel over.

—

**[Anathema] 7:16 AM**

hey, it's day 1 right??  
of your "great plan" 

**[AJC] 7:20 AM**

good morning to you too  
yeah, i guess you can say that  
why?? gonna wish me luck?

**[Anathema] 7:22 AM**

nope :)  
but get me a green tea will you?  
i'll pay you later, thanks <3

**[AJC] 7:28 AM**

wow, i appreciate all the support  
don't know if i should even push thru with it tbh

**[Anathema] 7:35 AM**

awww. it'll go fine! believe me.  
and what's that thing you always say  
do it with ~style~

* * *

**STEP 1: Repair Your Image** ( ~~let him know you have at least one working braincell~~ )

The moment Crowley gets to the front of the coffee shop, he has half the mind to call the whole thing off. 

It seems so much simpler in his head: how he'll saunter into the shop with a toothy grin plastered on his face, full on debonair as he introduces himself to the manager again with as much charm as he can muster. Enough charm for yesterday's mess to look like a blip in the grand scheme of things. Because Anthony J. Crowley knows how to keep his cool in any and all circumstances, thank you very much. 

But apparently, the mere thought of the angel with his soft curls and beaming smile sends all his bravado out the window. While he may be great at his job, and while he may be an expert of the "fake it 'til you make it" mentality for the things he's evidently _not_ great at, he knows his weaknesses well enough. Admittedly, he's a disaster on legs when feelings get into the mix, a non-negotiable character trait.

"7th Heaven Café," he mumbles to himself as he reads the words placed in fancy calligraphy above the front entrance. Sort of ironic, if you ask him. In contrast, he feels like he was damned on his very first encounter. Less _"welcome to paradise!"_ and more " _abandon all hope, ye who enter here."_

With the exception of Aziraphale, of course.

"Eh, might as well," he says with a shrug, finally gathering enough nerve to push the glass door open. 

There are only a few customers so far, considering how early it is. He realises right as he steps in that this is actually the first time he's getting a proper look of the interior. The other day, he was too groggy to properly take in his surroundings. Then there's the fact that he got distracted by the whole six orders debacle. 

For all intents and purposes, 7th Heaven is an ordinary coffee shop. There are tables, chairs, and sofa seats scattered around in an orderly design. Warm lights illuminate the room as soft lo-fi music plays softly through the speakers. Perfectly ordinary.

Yet the overall ambience is much more pleasant than he first expected, with the scent of in-house roasted coffee and freshly baked muffins wafting through the shop and creating a very comfortable atmosphere. If he'd be tasked to describe the place, he'd say it's _cosy_ in every sense of the word.

His eyes wander around as he makes his way to the counter, silently contemplating how he could find a way to strike a conversation with the manager today. He didn't actually think that part of his plan through, opting to go with the flow instead. He's the manager of the place, after all, so he must pop in at some point—

_"Oh, hello."_

His eyes shoot up the moment he hears the familiar voice. There he is, the angel himself; in front of the cash register and looking thoroughly amused. He's wearing mostly the same outfit today, except that the tartan mittens are gone and he's got a pair of round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. Thankfully, the worrisome expression that adorned his face on their first meeting is nowhere in sight.

"Ngk. Hey," Crowley stammers, obviously surprised to see him so soon. _So much for appearing debonair._

"If you're wondering, I'm on the till while our other barista's on the way. Newt was reassigned to oven duty."

A playful, sideways smile forms on his lips. "Probably for the best. Though I have to say, that whole thing made my first visit here quite memorable."

"You really didn't have to do that," Aziraphale replies, voice hushed. "And it would've made sense if you got upset over it." 

"Nah, don't worry about it," he says genuinely, squinting at the menu hung up on the wall and absentmindedly considering his options. "Last thing you guys need is another shitty customer."

The angel softens. "I suppose we were lucky it was you, then."

Crowley drops his gaze back to him, eyes wide and mouth gaping for a split second before his brain reboots and starts working again. "Yeah, erm. If you put it that way."

"So, what will it be?" he asks, seemingly oblivious to Crowley's inner turmoil. 

"I think I'll go for your cold brew special today. Oh! And green tea. Both venti."

Aziraphale punches the order into the till with furrowed brows and meticulous fingers, making Crowley smile. A clear indication that the man isn’t used to this part of the job at all. 

"And your name?" he continues, picking up a pentel pen and peering up at him curiously.

"Crowley." Belatedly, he realizes that this is the first time he’s introduced himself to the angel by name. Granted, it’s only his last name, but he’s never preferred 'Anthony' anyway. There’ll be plenty of time for proper introductions.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but the new barista appears a second later in what he would rank high on a list of ill-timed entrances. "Oh, excuse me for a moment," the angel mutters with a nod before stepping to the side. 

Crowley tamps down his disappointment and resigns himself to finish the transaction with the young lady as Aziraphale disappears into the kitchen. 

And he could just leave it like that. View this as a good development overall, considering the circumstances. But he decides he does like this coffee shop after all, his own dramatics aside. He likes the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sleepy morning ambience— a stark contrast to how everything else in this bustling city is incredibly fast-paced. It won’t hurt to stick around for a little while longer— to find a nice nook in the café and enjoy a sip of his drink in peace. 

Crowley spends a few minutes on his phone, catching up on the news and checking emails. There’s one client who is sure to buy the flat he showed her a few weeks ago, which should be a cause for celebration. Just enough of a reason to open the bottle of Merlot he’s been saving, for when it’s a done deal.

He hears someone approaching him soon after, but pays them no mind. Probably another customer looking for an available table. 

“I do believe I left abruptly earlier.” To his surprise, it’s Aziraphale standing before him with an apologetic look on his face. “Quite rude of me, don’t you think?” 

“Not rude at all,” he responds immediately, and perhaps a tad bit eager. There’s a dumb smile on his face now and he knows it. “Though I don’t mind continuing our conversation. You do seem like good company already.”

Crowley gestures for him to sit down, and he does after a moment of reluctance. “Well, we do have a little bit of time before things get busy...”

Right away, he learns that it’s so very easy to talk to Aziraphale. It’s easy to let him in and talk about bits and pieces of his life, and to listen to him ramble on about his worries over managing a whole shop for the first time. They’ve been speaking for only what… five minutes so far? Yet he feels like they’re capable of chatting for hours on end. There’s a certain coyness in the way the angel leans into their conversation, enough to render him tongue-tied. By some miracle, he somehow manages.

"I'm in real estate," Crowley explains, relaxing into his seat. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, sounding more fascinated than what his job really deserves. Crowley still appreciates it, though. “Do you mean like those people on television selling those lavish houses in the Bahamas?”

Crowley laughs, shaking his head. "Er. My job isn't as glamourous, m'fraid."

“It wouldn’t be that far off - that is, it suits you. All the flash and glamour. Especially considering your _look._ You know,” He waves his hand vaguely in the air instead of continuing.

He leans in curiously at that. There’s something Aziraphale isn’t telling him, but he’ll probably say it with a bit of prompting. “Yeah? Go on.”

He suspects that it must be about his ever-present sunglasses. It’s usually the sunglasses. Although he’s not always keen on telling people about his eye-condition. It always ends up as an unpleasant or awkward situation with either too many questions or some unnerving look of pity. Not even a big deal, just a bit of sensitivity to light. 

"If you must know, I was wondering about the tattoo.”

Ah. That’s unexpected, though it really shouldn’t be. It _is_ quite visible: a small black serpent slithering down the side of his right cheekbone, close to his ear. Nothing screams dastardly like a face tattoo. Truthfully, there are times he forgets getting inked in the first place, as if it’s been there all along. In a way, it has been forever since he got the bloody thing.

“Got it years back when I was still in uni. Wasn’t drunk but I wouldn’t say it was a _completely_ sober decision. It just seemed right at the time…” He trails off for a moment, before whispering, “don’t like it?” 

The question is meant to be half-hearted. More of a joke, if anything, but some sort of raw honesty still seeps through. He hopes it isn’t too much of a turn off.

“It’s not that,” he assures thoughtfully. “I’ll get used to it.” 

“Huh. Good - that’s good. I’m glad,” he grins, a little dumbfounded.

Aziraphale smiles warmly, before his gaze moves down to the drinks on the table. "So, I assume you didn't order both for yourself."

“Hah - no, the green tea’s for a friend from work. I should head there soon, actually,” Crowley remarks, taking a look at his wristwatch. “I’ll continue the story another time, hm?” 

“Hopefully, that means we haven’t scared you off, then,” he concludes, eyes shining. _Yes, this day is definitely a success._

“Not at all. You can expect me first thing tomorrow.”

Aziraphale brightens up even more. "Are you planning on becoming a regular?" 

"Ah, my office is in the building across the street so it's rather convenient," he responds, all while his mind is yelling for him to say: _I could be, if you'd like me to._

“Convenient, indeed.”

"It was good meeting you properly. Talking for a bit. S’nice,” Crowley says as he gets to his feet, slipping his phone in his back pocket and taking hold of the coffee cups again.

Aziraphale stands up as well, nodding and glancing over to the counter briefly. His mind probably back on his duties for the day. “Quite. See you tomorrow?”

“Yep. See you tomorrow, ange- _Aziraphale_ ," he replies, barely catching himself. Gratefully, the angel doesn’t seem to notice. 

—

“That manager you like is both gay and single,” Anathema says as she strolls back into the office after lunch one afternoon. “Took the liberty of finding out for you since you’ve been too shy to ask him yourself.”

Crowley almost chokes, still in the middle of scarfing down his egg sandwich. He swallows the bite hurriedly, indigestion be damned. “How’d you learn that?”

“Newt told me when I went to the café earlier. He was awkward but nice, so I flirted a bit. Asked him a few things, and the rest is history."

"He just told you?!"

She gives him a borderline condescending look, and he would scowl in return if not for the new information she’s bestowing upon him. "Aw, Crowley. Don't doubt me ever again.”

He’s impressed, but he’s always impressed with Anathema. "Now I'm really curious how you got that out of him."

“I was honest with him, actually," she shrugs, settling back in her cubicle. "Said a friend of mine took a liking to the manager. Don’t worry, I made him swear on his life that he won't tell anyone.”

He nods, not bothering to hide his smile. Maybe, just maybe, he has a chance. "Thanks. I guess I owe you one."

“You lucked out with this one. I want half of the money if you ever win the lottery.”

“Sure, got it,” he snorts. But then his phone rings and he grimaces when he sees the Caller ID. _He’s far too restless for this._ "Hope Hastur enjoys his time in voicemail. I'm going out for a bit."

"Huh?"

"No time to talk. Coffee run!" 

* * *

**STEP 2: Use Your Charms** ( ~~small talk sucks what if i just bare my soul to you?~~ )

The silver lining in the panoply of Crowley’s failed flirtations is that Aziraphale's too oblivious to notice his blunders in the first place. 

Even so, it has very much become a question of whether he prefers to be spared daily humiliation but settle with ambiguity, or suffer a very certain rejection in the end. For now, he still has enough hope to put aside the latter option. 

Although it really is rather ridiculous. Comical, even. How dense can the angel be? 

“Hey,'' Crowley begins cautiously right after making his order (it’s only an Earl Grey for now; he doesn’t want too many nerves to set in). He woke up bright and early for this, and even gave himself a short pep talk in front of the bathroom mirror. Still, it’s his first attempt and he’s opted to try something a little on the safe side. “What do you think about petnames?” 

Aziraphale ponders for a moment, finishing up Crowley’s tea and placing the steaming cup on the counter. “If you're thinking about getting one, I'd suggest a proper name. Like Gregory!”

“N-no, s'not what I - wait,” he scrambles in disbelief. “Who would name their pet Gregory?!”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable name!”

Crowley takes a moment to stare at him in awe. Is this man even susceptible to flirting in the first place? Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it cute anyway. “Pft. Whatever you say, _angel_ ,” he punctuates the last word clearly, still trying to test the waters.

Aziraphale’s cheeks flush an adorable pink, their eyes meeting a second after. And Crowley swears the other could very well be on the cusp of understanding what he’s been driving at. _Please. Work with me here, will you?_

But then the angel drops his gaze back down, shaking his head with a chuckle. The moment done and over with. “That’s correct, actually. Aziraphale _is_ the name of an angel. My parents are extremely religious, so there was no getting away from it.”

Crowley can’t tell if that’s code for him shooting the idea down, or if he’s really not reading into this at all. In any case, he shuts up to save himself from further embarrassment. 

Another time, then.

—

Unfortunately, Crowley doesn’t get to visit 7th Heaven again until a few days later. He had to spend the weekend out of town in a small village named Tadfield to finalize a sale with a newlywed couple. It was a success, of course. They bought a nice bungalow with a small backyard— the white picket fence dream. 

He likes Tadfield. He likes its small town living and lush greenery. The fact that the suburban dream _sells_ is one aspect of it, but mostly he’s drawn to how the place exudes a charm like no other. The perfect spot to settle down in, one day.

It feels nice to be back, though. The idea of settling down is still very much a daydream, and there are things to look forward to here in London. He’s got a few friends he can count on and a good, well-paying job. A comfortable flat in Mayfair, too. Then there’s Aziraphale, with his bright eyes, and soft laugh, and his propensity to wiggle whenever he gets excited. Crowley sort of develops a Pavlovian response to the angel’s puppy dog eyes: that is, the undeniable urge to do whatever he asks of him. It easily becomes his ultimate weakness, to be sure.

The first view Crowley gets when he pushes the glass door open is a heated discussion between Aziraphale and a customer. Though perhaps discussion isn’t the correct term, because it looks more like a man yelling snide remarks while the angel nods silently, trying his best to stay professional despite his visible discomfort. 

Without another thought, Crowley heads over to the till, more intent on figuring out what the hell is going on rather than purchasing anything just yet. 

“What’s all that about?” he asks the cashier. The one on duty today is Pepper, a university student and part-timer with a lot of guts and grit for her age. He can tell she’s upset by the whole thing too, with how she’s shooting daggers at the man in question. 

Pepper grimaces, glancing around before leaning in to whisper. “That knob’s complaining that I got his order wrong. He's pushing that he ordered an Espresso Con Panna when I _know_ he said he wanted a Cortado. Was about to throw hands but Mr. Fell said he'd handle it.”

_Of course he did. He has to, because he manages the place, but it’s still unfair that anyone has to be at the receiving end of whatever this tosser has to say._

“You’re the manager, eh?” the man continues, loud enough for Crowley to hear. “Why can’t you keep things around here in order?”

“I'm sure we can get your new order made in two shakes of a lamb's tail, sir,” Aziraphale replies calmly, forcing out another smile. Crowley curls his hand into a fist, knuckles going white as he forces himself to stay put.

“Load of bollocks! Wouldn't be having this conversation if you lot got it right the first time, would we?” 

Aziraphale looks completely at a loss, knowing he can’t win this no matter what he says. The customer is always right and all that bullshit they need to adhere to by principle. And the angel almost resigns himself to a losing battle, but then he turns his head and locks eyes with Crowley. They widen a fraction, startled, before he gives him an expression that may very well be a plea for help. 

Crowley is reasonably surprised. Sure, they’ve already spent a bit of time getting to know each other, but he hardly seems like the one you’d pick out from a crowd for some support. That isn’t to say he isn’t willing. If Aziraphale needs a knight in shining armour today, he’ll heartily play that role.

“Hey, mate," he calls out, making his way beside the angel. "Might wanna take it down a notch. You could get into some serious trouble.”

The man scoffs, eyebrows cocked at his sudden appearance. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m really not,” Crowley smiles through gritted teeth, pointing towards one corner of the room. Entirely unaffected by his tone. “D’you see that thing? It’s a surveillance camera, and would you look at that! Even got a good view of your face from here.”

He revels in the man’s flabbergasted expression before tipping his head toward the exit. A silent signal that he should scram. The man huffs indignantly but takes a step back anyway, muttering to himself and pushing his way out the door.

“Thanks for the, uh, rescue,” Aziraphale says, finally allowing himself to relax as soon as he’s out of sight.

Crowley shrugs, hoping to _someone_ that the yellow lights of the café hide his obviously flushed cheeks. “You don’t need to say that. Any decent bloke would’ve done the same thing.”

“We both know that’s not true. I think you’re kinder than most—”

“ _Aziraphale_ . It’s okay, really,” he interjects, rubbing his nape sheepishly. _It's because it's you— I did it for you. You must know that. I'm not even subtle about it._ “Sorry. Just don’t do well with compliments, s’all.”

The angel nods in understanding. “I’m still very grateful. What can I do to return the favour, then?”

_Oh._

_This is it_ , Crowley thinks. This is his chance to sweep the angel off his feet. _Have lunch with me, maybe? Or we can feed the ducks in St. James Park and have a little picnic, if you’d like that._

“Ngh. I can’t possibly decide on something like that,” he mutters instead (blasted cold feet). “How about you decide for me, hm?”

Aziraphale considers for a moment, all pursed lips and furrowed brows— something that makes Crowley wish he asked for a kiss instead. “Not to boast but I’m quite proud of the apple tarts I made this morning. What if I treat you to one?”

“Sure, angel,” he responds, mustering up a smile. “Whatever you like.”

—

After a month of trying (and failing miserably, at that), he decides that he’ll give one last go with all the flirting before reconsidering this whole thing. It’s his own fault and he knows it. He can’t be upset at Aziraphale for not answering a question he’s barely been asking. 

One rainy afternoon, Crowley finds himself back at his usual spot in the café for a much needed caffeine boost. He’s _supposed_ to get a to-go cup, but the mere thought of stepping back into the office makes him want to hurl himself out of the goddamn building. So here he is, in his little safe haven, typing furiously on his laptop and attempting to get as much work done before heading back up.

“Is anything troubling you, my dear?” 

Crowley peeks up from his laptop screen and sees Aziraphale standing in front of him, wringing his wrists worriedly. It’s only at this moment that he realizes how distressed he must look: grumbling to himself and scowling at anyone who steps a little too close to his table. Honestly, he can be quite a bear when he’s upset over paperwork. Definitely something he didn’t want the angel to see, but now it’s too late.

“M’alright, angel,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair and letting his shoulders sag. “Just thinking about a deadline I have tomorrow morning. I’ll probably be in the office later ‘til the crack of dawn.” 

“You can always do the rest of your work here, you know,” he suggests. And it’s not a bad idea, since the café is open until four in the morning. “I’ll be the one closing shop later anyway.”

“Hm. I’ll most likely be the last customer,” Crowley mumbles slowly, drumming his fingers on the wooden table. Now’s not the ideal time to flirt, but it's still worth a shot (as always, a complete shot in the dark when it comes to this man). “Y’know, it could end up with just the two of us here.”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

"I agree! _Hah_ \- what if… what if it gets late, and we’re alone. And things start getting heated. What would you do?" he teases, not quite an invitation but an offer is there nonetheless. 

They’ve never actually had the chance to spend time alone together, so it may be a game changer. He can already imagine it: the dimly lit café, with Eartha Kitt crooning through the speakers, the tension between them growing more palpable with each passing minute.

But Aziraphale just looks at him in confusion. "Then I'll be sensible and turn the thermostat down, my dear." 

Crowley gapes at him. He should have known. 

_Well. That was a thing._

At the very least, he’s made a good friend. Someone he can genuinely call a best friend, if he really thinks about it. In the span of a few months, he’s easily settled into a daily routine at 7th Heaven. Everything became so familiar so fast, when it came to buying his morning coffee and popping back in the afternoon for another fix. And it isn't just that, because Aziraphale is always the one greeting him and preparing his order. Every single time. 

They talk a lot nowadays, and they’ve moved past the need for small talk (which Crowley was thankful for, because he’s never been a fan of those short and polite question-and-answers that mean nothing at all. He’s got enough of that at work). 

In contrast, they quite easily fall into all sorts of conversations. About how god-awful city living can be at times, but also how all their favourite little restaurants are here. About how they both love dressing up for a Glyndebourne production just as much as they love cosying up at home and watching some trash telly. They’ve even spent an extended period of time marveling over the sheer satisfaction you can get from a bottle of Pinot Noir. 

They don’t always agree on trivial things (don’t even get them started on Shakespeare), but Crowley would be a fool to miss this instant, _effortless_ connection. 

He learns that Aziraphale lives in Soho, in a flat he rents just above a bookshop. He’s been staying there for years already, ever since he moved to London a decade ago. He rarely speaks to his family anymore, understandably so. They never truly accepted him for who he is, nor his life choices. Crowley knows a bit of how that feels like, having been kicked out when he was only sixteen for similar reasons. He’s had to make do ever since. 

Luckily, they've both healed through time.

He also learns that the angel loves baking. Something that started out as a hobby, but then developed into an actual skill he now uses at work. The owner even gave him free reign over what baked goods they’ll be selling per day, mostly because his one suggestion (now named the ‘Heavenly Profiteroles’) was a huge success with patrons. He’s been experimenting and adding things to the menu ever since. Which makes sense, because at some point Aziraphale started offering him a complimentary pastry here and there. Crowley wouldn’t call himself a dessert person, but one glance into those hazel eyes turns him a blubbering mess who just really can’t say no.

Ultimately, it makes the angel happy so how can he resist?

—

**[Aziraphale] 2:47 PM**

_Check attached image._

**[AJC] 2:53 PM**

????  
uhhhhh angel  
a selfie of you...and a kid?

**[Aziraphale] 3:00 PM**

His name is Adam!   
He tried to steal a muffin at the shop.  
Luckily, I caught him before he did. :) 

**[AJC] 3:02 PM**

so you took a photo with a thief  
i need you to elaborate a bit more for me

**[Aziraphale] 3:07 PM**

Well, he was starving and had no money.   
I can’t blame him for that.  
So I just gave him a firm talking to, offered him  
that muffin, and then sent him on his way.

**[AJC] 3:08 PM**

so you just gave it away   
you never cease to amaze me

**[Aziraphale] 3:11 PM**

Is that a bad thing, my dear?

**[AJC] 3:14 PM**

not at all, angel  
never change x

—

After a whole day of showing prospective clients numerous apartments in the city, Crowley walks into the coffee shop feeling like death and in desperate need of caffeine.

“Another late night?” the angel asks sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Crowley replies with a deep frown. His eyes narrow in on a new popular item on the menu. “Holy Blend please, angel. Got a lot to finish and I need the energy.” 

Ironically, the “Holy Blend” isn’t as _holy_ as it purports to be. On the contrary, the drink has already been dubbed as something hell-incarnate by most customers. It makes sense, considering that the thing contains as many shots of espresso as legally permitted by the Food Standards Agency. 

Aziraphale looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Out of the question.”

“What, erm,” Crowley raises a brow in confusion. “Why not?”

“It’s just that…” he whispers, appearing absolutely torn. “I - I can’t have you risking your life!”

Despite his exhaustion, an amused grin quirks on the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Now you're being dramatic, angel.”

“Oh, hush. You know that _concoction_ is a health hazard. I'll go get you a black tea,” he says with finality. “Go sit down, I’ll bring it over to you.” 

A few minutes later, the angel walks over to his table holding a tray with the steaming beverage and a cheese toastie to boot. “The sandwich is my treat, just so you know. In case you forgot to have supper again.”

Crowley’s gaze moves from the cup of hot tea, to the cheese toastie, and finally back to the angel. He did, in fact, forget all about supper. Aziraphale could see right through him. And though he normally detests being taken care of (he can do that for himself just fine), he doesn’t seem to mind this one bit. Maybe because it’s _him_. The man of his dreams, an actual Angel of the Lord.

“Hey, Aziraphale?” he croaks out, letting his guard down for a split second. Crowley adjusts his sunglasses, to make sure he can’t see his eyes. That would give too much away. “Thank you.”

The angel beams at him, taking a step forward to gently squeeze his shoulder. “Of course, my dear.” 

The touch lingers on Crowley’s mind for the rest of the evening.

—

Anathema leans against the panel of Crowley’s cubicle, watching in amusement as he spends his break time scrolling through a website with vintage cars for sale on his phone. (He’s saving up for a 1930s Bentley, and it’ll be a long time until he has enough to purchase one but a man can dream, can’t he?)

“How’s your plan going, loverboy? Give me the full report,” she finally says, breaking the silence.

He halts, squinting up at her. “What's got you so curious?”

“Because! You seem to genuinely like the guy, and we _are_ friends,” she points out, rolling her eyes. “Come on, think of this as your performance review or something. I’ll rate your progress.”

Crowley relents, placing his phone down and turning to face his friend. “Progress is a _process_. But, I don’t know - I’m not sure if I should continue.”

“Are you losing interest in him?”

“That’s not it,” he says quickly. “Still hopeless for him, would still do anything for him. Just don’t wanna ruin it.”

“Ah… you really got it bad, huh,” she concludes, voice soft.

“ _Mmmrgh_ , I just wanna be near him all the time, y’know? Whenever he so much as smiles at me, I get the urge to just lay it all on the line and tell him how I feel. But what if he doesn’t reciprocate, and things get awkward?” Crowley’s gaze drops down to the floor. “Losing his friendship would leave me gutted.”

A beat of silence passes between them before Anathema speaks again. “So you’re willing to stop the whole operation, even if that means you’ll be pining over him in silence?”

“Definitely,” he replies in a heartbeat. “He’s worth it.”

—

“I've always thought about moving out of the city, one day,” Aziraphale sighs wistfully. It’s another early morning, and they’re chatting as the angel places a batch of chocolate chip cookies into the glass display case. “Somewhere more quiet, where I can settle down for good. The South Downs, perhaps.” 

Crowley hums sleepily, taking a sip of his coffee. “Oh? Well, it’s not the South Downs, but... I’ve done some business in this village called Tadfield. Really nice houses there. Could give you a tour if you'd like, just for a feel of it.”

“Are you proposing to be my real estate agent?” 

_Ah fuck_. "No I - I'm mentioning it as a friend." Crowley mentally curses himself. _Nice going, now he might think you're really_ _here trying to solicit business._

"I'm only teasing,” the angel muses, before giving him a subtle once over and adding, “To be perfectly honest… I quite like your business voice.” 

“Do you, now?” He tilts his head curiously, feeling a bit relieved. A bit thrilled. “Well, there’s one in particular that I think you’d like. Jasmine Cottage. It’s got a nice garden, and enough space for a library of its own. S’only a ten minute walk to the shops.”

“Hm. That sounds rather tempting, actually,” Aziraphale mumbles lowly.

Crowley offers a lopsided grin. “Tempting is my specialty, angel.” 

“I have no doubt about that, my dear.”

It sounds very much like they’re flirting. But that would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Aziraphale has never really shown an interest in him like this, no matter how many hints he's given. His mind must be playing tricks on him. It must be.

_It must be._

* * *

**STEP 3:** ~~ **Be Confident, Ask Him Out ???**~~ Crowley is a bona fide disaster gay (but it all still works out)

True to its name, 7th Heaven Café has become sacred grounds to many people in this side of the city, both office workers and students alike; for all those who seek refuge from the hellscape of never-ending deadlines and unreasonable amounts of workload. 

Suffice it to say that business is booming for this quaint coffee shop. This is a good thing… mostly. It means they don't need to worry about closing down or anything like that, which is monumentally positive. At the same time, Aziraphale’s superiors have begun employing less than ideal labour practices— pushing for longer shifts and keeping the café open even on holidays. It’s as if they’re testing out how much they can get away with. 

The months roll by fairly quickly, with the seasons coming and going in the blink of an eye. The passage of time seems like such a fickle thing, dragging out or going full speed ahead whenever it pleases. 

New Years Eve finds Crowley stepping out into the nearly empty pavement in front of Anathema’s flat. He should be up there, celebrating with the rest of her guests but he barely knows them (which wasn’t his friend’s fault, he only really went there for her). Besides, he had a bit too much to drink already and needed some fresh air. 

It’s fortunate that he knows these streets well enough. Anathema’s place is only a fifteen minute walk to their office building after all. Something generally convenient for her, and something particularly convenient for him tonight. 

By sheer force of habit, he heads toward the direction of the café, using the same route he takes on any other day. Even from a distance, he can already see the bright yellow lights of the shop turned on. Blaring in the otherwise dark street. _Why is it open today, and at this hour?_

Due to a good dose of liquid courage, his curiosity gets the better of him.

Crowley stumbles into 7th Heaven, hand still on the door handle as he surveys the shop. There are no customers in sight, but he catches a glimpse of a familiar fluff of white-blond hair by the display shelves. Clear and unmistakable. A sight that makes him sober up slightly. 

“Aziraphale?”

Sure enough, it’s the angel himself. He turns around, eyes lighting up as soon as they’re facing each other. “Crowley. You’re here...”

He nods, dumbstruck. “Yeah, a friend of mine is hosting a party at their apartment nearby. I just needed to get out for a bit and... I was surprised to see the lights on."

“Yes, well. Let’s just think of it as a happy accident that we’re meeting tonight," Aziraphale tries to sound cheerful, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Crowley isn’t convinced.

“What the deuce are you doing here, working alone on New Year’s Eve?” he asks, mouth forming into a pensive frown. He takes a few steps closer. “You could have told me, angel.”

Just like that, Aziraphale’s face crumples. “If you must know, Gabriel - the owner of this establishment - insisted that we stay open even tonight. I merely informed him that everyone should be able to celebrate New Years with their families,” he explains with a sad laugh. “Apparently, I’m the only one who will _not_ be spending the holidays with relatives. He wouldn't let up until I agreed to manage the shop myself, even if I had to do it alone.”

“Oh… oh, angel,” Crowley soothes, rushing forward and wrapping him in his arms. An impulsive gesture, but it feels like the right thing to do. “Your boss is a wanker.” 

Aziraphale melts into his embrace without hesitation, sniffling against his shoulder. “Even so…” 

“You didn’t disagree.”

 _“Even so,”_ Aziraphale persists, though his voice betrays his frustration. He lifts his head up to look at him. “I can’t just disobey and risk losing my job.”

Crowley sighs. As much as he wants to object, it truly is a tough spot to be in. He shouldn’t be giving him a hard time about it. “Then I suppose I’ll just stay here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Goodness. No, my dear,” he replies, a hand pressed gently against his chest. “I can’t possibly impose.”

“You’re not imposing, I swear! The one hosting the party is my friend, Anathema. A colleague from work, who I think I might've mentioned once or twice before. And she - she already _knows_ that, well...”

“That what?”

Crowley gulps, realising that he's on the brink of revealing more than he ought to. It’s the alcohol, he tells himself. With a steady hand, he takes his sunglasses off and slips them into his pocket. _No more hiding._

“That I’d rather be here, with you,” he exhales shakily. 

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, in each other’s arms, all while Crowley keeps himself from blabbering on. A mantra of _don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, don’t_ —

“Would it be terribly forward for me to say I could just kiss you right now?” Aziraphale finally says, eyes glittering. 

Crowley swears the rest of the world fuzzes into static. The overplayed holiday music booming through the speakers, the constant hum of cars passing by, and the distant sound of fireworks all become a blur as his focus zeroes in on the man before him. He can barely register his confession in the first place. 

_What the actual living fuck?_

“Nrgh, I wouldn’t say too forward,” Crowley splutters, heart racing a mile a minute. “I mean - if you want to. Snog me senseless, if you'd like. I wouldn’t mind it.”

Aziraphale laughs, shoulders sagging in relief. “Oh dear, I know I haven’t been the most obvious with my affections, but I’ve been trying to show you for a few weeks now.”

“You have?” _Have I been the dense one all along?!_

“Er, I honestly made all those pastries I offered specifically with you in mind,” he reveals, blushing furiously as soon as he admits it. 

“Angel, I’m not a sweet tooth _at all_ ,” he replies, shoulders shaking with mirth. “I’ve just been eating them because you’ve been giving them to me.”

Aziraphale stops, pursing his lips in thought. “Perhaps I could have worked it out a little better.”

“If it’s any consolation, I've liked you from the very beginning,” Crowley grins wide and dimpled. He's pretty sure he looks like a loon but he doesn't care about that one bit anymore. 

“Is that so?” Aziraphale giggles, cupping the other's cheeks with a dreamy sigh. His gaze flickers down to his lips, and Crowley doesn’t fail to notice it. 

A subtle invitation.

“Mmhm, completely besotted,” he drawls, leaning in slow and careful until their lips finally touch. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, with the angel tilting his head to slot their lips better. It deepens even more. A gentle press of skin quickly turning into a mess of tongue and teeth, all while still laced with undeniable affection. Aziraphale makes a small noise when Crowley tugs him closer by the waist, an arm hooking around the latter’s torso. 

When they break away to catch their breaths, they’re both beaming. 

“I want to take you out on a proper date, angel,” Crowley grins, gazing at him adoringly. “Anywhere you’d like to go.”

Aziraphale mirrors his smile, kissing him over and over again. “Oh, darling. I thought you’d never ask.”

—

(Crowley is no stranger to the rewards of a well-thought out plan. He realises, however, that no one _really_ has everything figured out. Some things are just a tad bit ineffable, and that isn't too bad. Not at all.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, I hope you liked this little fic! Kudos are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Twitter: starrysheen


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